


keep the windows open

by ApprenticeofDoyle, DacerGirl369



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood and Gore, Dating, F/F, Falling In Love, Horror Elements, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Romance, newt wishes he was fox mulder, the authors shamelessly misappropriate scientific jargon, there are murders and there is mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DacerGirl369/pseuds/DacerGirl369
Summary: MIT professor Newt Geiszler is a part-time cryptozoologist intrigued by a recent spree of killings near campus. After a mysterious visitor drops by his freshman monster mythology course, Newt is exposed to the truth he’s spent his entire career searching for-- and a dark, dangerous reality, lurking just below the surface of Boston...





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> so this fic started as a fun chat fueled by marathoning The X-Files and quickly transformed into a monster of terrifying proportions and all we have to say for ourselves is a) this baby's gonna be Big, b) this is totally the fault of decadent-mousse's ~glorious~ AU 'Blood and Pumpkin Spice', which we are both obsessed with, and c) none of this would have happened if Newt wasn't the biggest monster fucker of all time
> 
> we hope you guys enjoy <3

**chapter one**

“Good _morning_ , people! So, uh, it’s just after nine, let’s get this thing started, huh? Everybody eyes up, pencils down-- you don’t need them yet-- I want you guys looking up at me, not your desks. Everybody ready?”

Looking up at a sea of wide-eyed, attentive freshman faces, Newt steps away from his perch at the lecture podium and claps his hands together.

“Awesome. Okay, so we’ve got a lot to cover today, so I’m gonna just breeze through introductions. Welcome to Crypt 101! Excited to have you! My name is Dr. Geiszler, but you call me Professor, Newt, Dr. G, whatever-- and please, please, if you guys would do me a favor and start calling me Spooky Geiszler behind my back, I’d, like, really appreciate it. Last semester none of my students would go for it and my reputation is suffering. Seriously, I don’t want to be invited to MIT faculty luncheons anymore.”

Laughter spills down the lecture hall and Newt smiles. “Cool. Okay, now that the ice is broken, I’m ready to dive into it.” Hands digging in his pockets, he starts his lecture wander, ambling about across the front row. “Let’s get the ball rolling. I’ve got a question for you guys, and it’s something I ask at the beginning of this class every semester. Anyone in the class can answer, but I want you to _think_ about your answer for more than just a second, okay, think about it seriously, don’t just, like, say the first thing that pops into your head. Got it?”

The class blinks in unison at him, some nodding, most students focused on him with that tangible underclassman energy despite the nine a.m. class time. Newt fights the urge to beam with excitement. He can’t grin when asking this question even though it’s his favorite, because he wants genuine answers, but this is something he always looks forward on the first day of this course.

“Sweet, here goes.” He lifts a hand, palm open, offering.

“Of all of the monsters of folklore...which one do you believe is the most likely to exist?”

A wave of titters breaks out as students dissolve into giggles and murmurs. He tips back and forth on his heels, waiting patiently for the whispers to die down. Nobody immediately raises their hands, too busy whispering to their friends or staring in disbelief, and Newt resists the urge to bite on his lip. This happens every semester, and he enjoys it every time. Man, he loves Crypt 101.

“No takers, huh?” he asks. “C’mon, gimme a monster-- it can be anything, a folktale, a cryptid, a horror archetype. Which one do you think actually has a shot at being real?”

A beat, and a brave, brown-nosing soul in the front row says, “Ghosts?”

“Ghosts, sweet.” He spins on a heel towards the board, grabbing some chalk and scratching out the word in choppy white strokes. “A little broad, but I’ll get into why later. Okay, anybody got another one?” He turns back to the class, expectant.

“...Uhh. Bigfoot?”

The class ripples with laughter and Newt’s mouth twitches at the corner as he writes that down as well, nodding encouragingly. “Alright, Bigfoot, nice. C’mon, I’m sure you guys have some more ideas!”

“The Loch Ness monster?”

“Ol’ Nessie! Interesting! One of my favorite mythical lizards!” He scrawls the words quickly, angling his head back to watch the expressions on some students’ faces transform from amusement to genuine concentration, and finally allows himself to smile. _That’s_ the good shit.

A girl with neat purple hair straightens a little in her seat just up the first row, awkwardly raising a hand. “Um. Mermaids?”

“Dude, yeah,” Newt says, pointing a finger gun in her direction, and she beams.

“...Aliens?”

“Different class, sorry, dude,” he says, and laughter rolls down the lecture hall rows again.

“What about Mothman?” Another student volunteers, and he bobs his head enthusiastically.

“Big fuzzy moth in the sky, definitely! C’mon, any other monsters you think have a shot?”

“Werewolves?”

“Werewolves!” he cries, dropping the chalk to snap his fingers in approval. “Alright! We’ve got some believers in this class!”

“What about Chupacabras?”

“Wendigo!”

“Demons!”

“Republicans!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Newt says, raising his hands in surrender before things can really dissolve. “Those are all valid, but let’s stay on topic, people. Think about the initial question! Which of these monsters, scary reputations aside, do you think could be _real?_ ”

Watching eyebrows start to rise, Newt makes a rewinding gesture with his hands. “Okay, guys, let’s take it back a bit. Let’s try another question. By a show of hands, how many of you guys have heard folk tales about monsters?”

A slow series of sixty or so hands rise into the air, representing most of the class, and he acknowledges them with a bob of his head.

“Okay, then. Awesome. Now, keep your hands up if you heard about monsters or supernatural creatures based where you guys grew up?”

Hands fall, but a significant number of the original hands remain aloft.

“Cool,” he says, pleased. “Campfire stories represent, huh? Okay, one last question. Keep your hands up if you-- or someone you know-- has ever _seen_ something they can’t explain.”

A beat of silence, and hands quiver in the air, uncertain.

“Not just heard stories,” he clarifies, “not just watched a shaky Youtube video shot by some dweebs in the woods, but if you or somebody you know actually _saw_ , or experienced, what could have been a supernatural creature or event.”

Hands drift downwards, students looking around at each other with amusement or slight nerves, but a couple brave souls keep their hands up. He makes eye contact with a few, mouth turned up in a bolstering grin.

“ _Sweeeeet._ Can’t wait to read essays about those, guys.” The hands rapidly drop and he laughs, along with the rest of the class. “I’m kidding, you guys are off the hook. Unless, like, you want to? Because I’m always up for- okay, _anyway_ , the point of that was to see that, look: all of you guys have at some point heard about monsters. We all grew up with some form of monster culture, monster folklore. All of us have seen them in movies, heard about them in scary stories. But the thing about most modern movies and adaptations is that monsters are always viewed within the frame of fiction. Of course they are, they’re movies, that’s what they’re supposed to do, right?”

“But fictional representations of monsters are not what we’re going to be talking about this class,” he continues. “As from what we just saw, for some people, monsters aren’t just legend. Just in case you missed the course description when you signed up, this course is all about looking at monsters and folktale creatures from a more scientific perspective.”

Newt turns once more to the chalkboard, quickly jotting down the creatures rattled off before in a list. “Mothman, werewolves, El Chupacabra, wendigo...and my personal favorite, vampires...All of these monsters come from somewhere. Monsters, creatures, things people can’t explain, they’re all passed down through generations within oral history, art, and written stories. Tales of monsters and the supernatural, like all stories, change and evolve over time. As cultures and civilizations spread or disappear, the details get complicated. In this class, we’re going to try to get to the bare bones of monster mythology and supernatural legends, the real _things_ behind the stories. And when I say ‘the real things’, I’m talking about the real-- uh, listen, kids, I know you’re frosh and all, but honestly, I’m gonna swear, like, all semester, so get used to it. Anyway, when I say ‘the real thing’ when I’m talking about monsters, I’m talking about the real shit.”

Ignoring the giggles that issue from him, he drops his chalk and wipes the dust from his fingers on his jeans, making his way towards the projector switch at the side of the room. “And by that, I mean the consistent creature behind it. Details that stay true across documents like commonalities in sightings, in recorded traits, geography. Little fragments of weird that crop up over and over again across worldwide histories, cultures, and regions.”

He slaps the projector button to bring the screen down with a whir, and reaches over to dim the lights. With the tap of a few keys at his computer, the darkened room is lit up with a massive photograph of an artist’s rendition of a _keelut,_ drawn with its muzzle pulled back in a snarl, saliva dripping from rows of jagged white teeth. Intrigued noises percolate throughout the class, music to his ears.

“Monsters represent an essential part of global cultural identities. Sure, today we have Hollywood and Halloween, so most societies have generally moved on from worrying about things that go bump in the night. But you know, it hasn’t always been that way. For centuries, monsters had street cred! Back in the day, to everyday people, monsters were about as real as gods or magic. Sure, to some people they were just rumors, but some people, your everyday townspeople? They _believed._ ” Newt waggles his fingers in the air for emphasis. “They _saw._ They told stories and drew images, some even tried to hunt them down. Peddlers sold protective charms, families kept their kids indoors at night. People were scared of the dark, because they thought things were out there. But were they right to be afraid? How much actual evidence exists for the so-called monsters that people claimed killed their neighbors, haunted their forests, ruined their crops?”

He pauses at the sound of the lecture hall entrance door creaking open, and glances upward expecting to see an apologetic student stumbling in late on their first day. It’s not. An older guy, older than Newt, moves quietly into the hall as the door slams shut behind him, visibly grimacing at the noise of it. He moves quickly to take a seat, cane tapping up the steps towards the back of the lecture hall, and Newt blinks distractedly up at him for a beat, a frisson of curiosity twisting in his gut, before jerking his chin back to his slides and physically dragging himself back to what he was saying. He can’t lose his rhythm this early in the lecture on the first day, he has to wait until at least the end of drop-add period before letting on what spaz he is in lecture to the kiddies.

“Anyways,” he says, clearing his throat and getting back on track. “Like all mythology, monster folklore can be traced back to points of origin using narrative threads. Cryptozoology, when done by _actual_ professionals instead of some nerds with cameras and zero training, examines the historical, anthropological, and biological evidence surrounding the mythos, cultural impact, and genuine existence of supernatural or mythical creatures.”

He clicks to another slide, a pic of Bela Lugosi blown up in black and white, leering over a blond-curled ingenue with his collar tips flared out and an arm dramatically outstretched. “Alright, so: disclaimer. As into monster movies and TV as I am, I just want to preface that this class is not going to looking at media. If you’re looking for an easy pop culture class, this is not the course you’re looking for.” He scans the crowd for disappointment and finds a few unhappy faces, clicking his tongue against his teeth. There’s always a few students who walk into this class thinking it’s a throwaway course where they get to watch scary movies and write papers about them, and he likes to pop that particular bubble right out the gate. “I’m not saying I’m like, a hard grader or anything, or that this class shoots above an introductory level, but classwork is going to be focused on _history,_ on  _archaeology._ We’re going to be analyzing the histories and existence of monsters by examining historical documents and cataloged physical findings. As in, _actual evidence._ Which of course, brings us to my second disclaimer. Some of you might think that every other thing that comes out of my mouth is batshit crazy. Believe it or not, you won’t be the first to think that--” snickers spill out of his audience and he throws out a good-natured wink, “-and you definitely won’t be the last, but all I ask from you guys is a little open-mindedness, huh? I probably won’t manage to convince everybody, but maybe, if I do my job right, by the end of this semester some of you guys will be believers.”

The class rumbles again with excited mutterings, and in the moment Newt finds himself glancing up at the newcomer sitting in the back. From here, the man's expression is pretty indecipherable, neither overtly amused or disapproving. Newt’s gaze can’t help zero in on the man’s crisp brown peacoat and dated haircut. Just a visitor? He’s not faculty, that he knows of, and doesn’t exactly look like an adult student. From such a distance, the guy shouldn’t really realize Newt is looking directly at him, but for a moment, even in the dimmed light of the lecture hall, they manage to lock eyes.

The man’s expression is cool and distant. Intent. Unease spikes in Newt’s gut, and he quashes the feeling with annoyance.

Biting his cheek, he looks away, determined to remain on track. _Looks like we may have a critic_ , he thinks, pride prickling underneath his skin. Pushing it aside for now, he skirts his attention across the rest of the class and confidently clicks to the first slide.

“Alright, let’s start with the basics-- definitions and early history. Like with any science, cryptozoology has its pioneers, rockstars of the spooky science scene...”

From there, Newt finds his groove, and the rest of the lecture goes pretty seamlessly. He’s done this particular presentation a half-dozen times already, so he’s memorized the slides and can keep things conversational with students while he paces about the floor, covering the whole stretch of the room to keep his body moving and the students alert.

He can’t resist looking up towards the back row every once in a while, where the stranger sits. The man’s expressions, in the dark, are indecipherable from across the room. But as the lecture goes on, Newt comes up a slide that usually gets a few ripples from the crowd and watches carefully. He taps his laptop, and a gory painting of a shtriga lights up the room-- her grey, wavy hair matted and bloody, back bent over a red-stained wooden cradle-- and _there it is._ Disgust flickers across the man’s sharp features, his mouth going tight at its edges. Check.

From then on, Newt can’t help but monitor the man’s expressions. There’s one instance, during a brief spiel on Christian occultism, that he even thinks the man looks so annoyed he’s going to get up and leave (which wouldn’t be any fun at all, really), but he doesn’t. The stranger just watches, gaze fixed unnervingly on Newt throughout the entire presentation, and Newt does his best to hide his own observation of the guy within casual sweeps of the lecture hall.

Aside from the distracting influence of the visitor’s presence, Newt’s pretty much on the ball today. By the end of the lecture, kids are lingering to hear him wrap up rather than packing up their stuff early to give him the hint, and that’s always a good sign. He ends with the first assignment of the week-- a one-page paper on a non-Western folktale creature-- and as he plugs his office hours, the lecture hall begins to empty in streams.

As he gathers his things, Newt takes the opportunity to look openly up at the stranger. The man is now standing, waiting for the aisle to clear before leaving as kids hustle their way by him down the steps. Finally free of the man’s unrelenting stare, Newt feels his jaw square in resolve. Diving quickly into the stream of students leaving the room, he makes his way out of the lecture hall into the hallway, and sidesteps to let students walk by. Then, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the wall, he waits.

The last of the students filter out, and eventually, so does the stranger.

“Enjoy the lecture?” he asks loudly.

The man stiffens like a startled cat, shoulders bunching as he halts in his step. A grim look crosses his face, clearly displeased with having been caught. Up close, Newt sees that the guy isn’t actually all that much older than him, like he first thought: it’s just the old-man-Oxbridge clothes that make him look like a relic. Grey cardigan beneath a chocolate brown coat, white shirt buttoned up nearly all the way tucked under a charcoal sweater vest-- does the guy have _no_ taste or is he just a millennial cliche?

“Excuse me?” the man hedges, as the lecture door slams shut behind him.

His English-accented voice is clipped and uninterested, as though he doesn’t know why Newt’s talking to him and doesn’t actually care, and Newt feels a shit-eating little smirk cut across his face.

“The lecture. Any feedback for me? Comments? I always like to hear from visitors.”

Newt can’t help the bite of sarcasm that enters his voice, and he watches the man catch and process it-- bent posture straightening, pale jaw shifting-- with smug satisfaction. The man finally looks directly at him, eyes narrowed, and Newt fights the unconscious urge to roll up his sleeves.

“Do you?” the man asks, voice curt. His thin upper lip twitches at a corner, as though about to stretch into a sneer. Instead of launching into a tirade like Newt half-expects him to, however, the man withdraws, gaze sliding away.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I have little feedback to offer you,” he says shortly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The heel of his Oxford shoe spins as he turns to walk away, and Newt frowns, blinking at him in surprise, before determination kicks him off the wall and onto the man’s trail.

“Really?” he asks, moving quickly to keep up. The man shoots him a glare as Newt falls in beside him, and he starts walking faster, as if intending to leave Newt and the conversation completely behind. Newt only hastens his pace. “That’s weird, because looking back on some of the expressions you wore in class, I thought you might be just _chock-full_ of feedback for me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man says. Without warning, he makes a prompt left turn towards a different hallway, and Newt’s Doc Martens squeak on the tile as he pivots to match. “I was merely dropping in to listen to whatever class was in the lecture hall.”

“Uh huh. Sure,” Newt huffs. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, dude, but I think you’re an awful liar.”

“You _are_ wrong. Stop following me. I have no wish to speak to you.”

“Aww, c’mon, man! I just wanna hear your thoughts! No need to be shy.”

The man curses under his breath in a language Newt only barely recognizes as German beneath its strange accent, and his eyes flicker hatefully towards Newt as they round another corner, coming up now on the Chemistry department. Delightedly, Newt thinks this guy might actually have no idea where he’s going, so long as he’s walking _away_ from Newt, and it's honestly hilarious.

“Fess up, dude,” he says, chuckling a little breathlessly (the guy is _fast)_ , “before you get even more lost.”

The man flares his nostrils in annoyance. “I’m not _lost._ And I rather doubt you’d like to hear my thoughts on the content of your course, Dr. Geiszler,” he levels out finally, tongue rolling the ‘r’ in his surname just a bit. _And there it is,_ Newt thinks, with vindication. “But if you don’t mind, I-”

“You’d be surprised, actually,” Newt says, clutching the strap of his messenger bag and booking ahead to try to cut him the man off, or at least catch his eye. “I’m always down to hear from fans, you know.”

“I am _not_ a fan,” the man snaps, voice lashing out like a whip. He stream rolls right around Newt, powering through a small tangle of chatting students, and Newt grins, weaving through the crowd and nearly tripping over a distracted kid with headphones around his ears.

“No? Coulda fooled me. You say my name like you know it, came by the lecture hall at just the right time...Really sticking to it that you happened to wander in and just stuck around ol’ Cryptozoology 101 for the fun of it?”

“Yes, well, one could certainly call it _entertainment,_ ” the man says, with sudden, scalding scorn, and Newt barks out a laugh.

“Yeah? Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it, man, good to know my lectures aren’t _boring_. I try to keep things light for the frosh, you know, it’s an early class and I want ‘em bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

“ _Light_ is an excellent term for it.”

“It is only the first day,” Newt says cheerfully. To his amusement, ignoring the barb makes the man click his tongue with irritation. “I could hardly open up with pictures of vampire bones found in Italy or cave depictions of the African grootslang during the first lecture--”

He cuts off as the man’s face twists in distaste and he makes a sound of victory, pointing at the harsh line of his mouth. “And, look, another one of those ‘feedback’ expressions from earlier! You got a thing against giant snakes?”

“I have a _thing_ about much of what you discussed in lecture this morning, Dr. Geiszler, but regrettably, I have better, more productive ways to spend my time than detailing them for you.”

“Obviously not, dude, or you wouldn’t have dropped by,” Newt shoots back, irritation driving his voice to a higher pitch. “Seriously, what things in particular do you have issues about? Because I gotta tell you, most people who drop in on my class who have _things_ about my work tend to be pretty vocal about what I’m doing wrong. Guess you’re fine to sit and make faces and feel superior about yourself, huh?”

“I _beg_ your pardon,” the man says, and stops so suddenly in his tracks that Newt nearly stumbles following suit. He draws himself up like an offended bird, outrage flaring in his eyes. “Do you treat all visitors to your lectures this way, or just the ones that don’t swoon over your horror film slides?”

“Thank fuck,” Newt says, sucking in oxygen. It’s embarrassing, but after that mini-marathon he’s almost out of breath. “Jesus, you're speedy. What, are you training for something?” The man scowls deeply at him, and Newt plants his hands on his hips. “And for your information, _no_ , actually, I don’t treat all my lecture guests this way. Just the ones who waltz in and sneer like they’re the first academic to look down on my freshman monster class, okay? Did you know I’m a biologist? That this isn’t the only course I teach? And that actually, cryptozoology is just a single, _veritable_ avenue of my research?”

“I am aware,” the man says stiffly. Newt crosses his arms, and watches the man’s dark eyes slide less-than-discretely over his tattoos.

“Yeah?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “Thought you weren’t a fan.”

“I’m-” The man cuts himself off, shoulders dropping as he realizes he’s caught. He presses his lips together, looking resentfully towards the ground.

“I...I am merely a fellow academic,” he says finally, as though the truth is being pulled from him with tweezers. He huffs and shifts his weight, readjusting his grip on the polished handle of his cane. “I...originally came to campus this morning to see if I could meet with you and discuss your most recent paper in _Quantum,_ but--"

“Seriously?” Newt asks, blinking. Alright, so maybe this guy _didn’t_ come all the way to MIT specifically to drop in and make judgey faces during his favorite class. “And you couldn’t, like, email? You had to drop in on one of my classes? In _this_ class?”

“I...didn’t realize what class you were instructing today.” Newt lifts his eyebrows at the uncertainty in the man’s voice. _Is he really that horrible of a liar or is he just_ _a shifty dude in general?_ “I read online that you had a lecture scheduled at this time and one later at four, and must have...missed the course designations. I didn’t realize when I walked in that you’d be teaching... _that._ ”

His voice drops into tones of reproach, and _oh, okay,_ Newt thinks, _he’s just an asshole._

“Then why didn’t you just leave?” he asks, hackles rising. “And actually, what’s wrong with a little freshman monster studies, huh? Too pop culture for you? Do you need to see my doctorates before you respect me? Because I’ve got plenty, dude-- chemistry, physics, molecular engineering, marine biology-”

“It was not a criticism of your credentials!” the man says, with a heated stamp of his cane on the floor. “It’s that I expected to come down here to discuss the biochemical findings of one of the most provocative physics papers I’ve ever read, but instead found myself walking in on a lecture that was- that was ripped from a script of _MonsterQuest!_ Imagine my disappointment when I realized a respected member of my field not only gives credence to, but _instructs_ a course in one of the most ludicrous, _laughable_ tracks of pseudoscience known to academia!”

“Guess you didn’t dig too deep into my journal history, huh?” Newt asks sarcastically. “Miss the article in _Parapsychology Today?_ Well, I’m sorry to _disappoint_ you with my diverse interests, dude, your criticism really stings, but I gotta be honest with you-- who the hell are you to care about what I do with my work and what research I dedicate _m_ y time to?”

“My _name,_ ” the man says snippily, “Is Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, and I have conducted extensive research in the field of quantum mech-”

“Wait,” Newt blurts. He feels his eyes go wide, and something in his brain goes _pop_ like a blown electrical socket. “You- _You’re_ Hermann Gottlieb? _You?”_

“ _Doctor,"_  the man-- Hermann fucking Gottlieb, holy _shit--_ corrects, voice testy. “And yes. I...take it you’ve heard of my work?”

Newt’s anger flees from his body in a tidal wave of disbelief. “Are you serious right now? Heard of- dude, we’ve been citing each other’s work back and forth for years! I emailed you once clarifying some details about one of your models in last year’s _Geometry and Physics_ and you basically told me to fuck off!”

“I did nothing of the sort!” Gottlieb splutters, and jabs a long finger at him. “ _You_ sent me an inane question about my choice to demonstrate my revised Schwarzschild model in two-dimensions rather than three-”

“It’s a wormhole! It takes place in 3-D space! The alterations of your model would have benefitted from a more practical, spatial representation, it would have taken like, five minutes with the right software-”

“It’s not the purpose of my research to make things _simple_ for casual readers,” Gottlieb says, with a haughty tip of the chin that stretches the long curve of his neck. “I’m much more occupied with demonstrating our theoretical understanding of the movement of quantum-entangled particles, an already _arduous_ task-”

“You made it needlessly complicated, dude! Looking at it was like trying to wrestle with a- okay, okay, you know what?” Newt lifts his hands in surrender, palms up, before raking one through his hair and letting out a breath. “Look, if you wanted to discuss my paper, you didn’t have to sit in on Crypt101 to get my attention, man. I have an office, you know? And you really, _really_ didn’t need to shit all over my favorite freshman class just because you don’t respect its content. In fact, if I didn’t know now what an asshole you were, I’d _love_ to sit down pick that giant, insane brain of yours on biochemical processes, but clearly I’m not up to your standards anymore, am I?”

Gottlieb opens his mouth to speak, before visibly thinking better of it and closing it again. The antagonism on his face flickers into something vaguely resembling regret, and Newt can take the moment to appreciate the gentling of the man’s features into something he might even call handsome. Hell, knowing the kind of mind is hidden beneath that terrible Alan Turing haircut, Gottlieb would normally be just Newt’s type: nice cheekbones, sarcastic, absolute genius. Even the stuffy professor vibe is kind of a decent look on the guy, if he’s being honest-- soft earthy tones balancing out the paleness of his skin and the fine edge of his cheekbones, and that _voice,_ even angry it’s low and-- shit, hold up, he’s supposed to be pissed off.

“...Dr. Geiszler,” Gottlieb begins.

“Newt,” he corrects immediately, dragging his eyes away from where they had fallen to rest on a peek of collarbone, just above the man’s single undone shirt button. Gottlieb raises a slow eyebrow at him, and Newt bites his cheek. Okay, so he never claimed to be subtle.

“Dr. Geiszler,” Gottlieb reaffirms, and shifts his jaw. “I...apologize. I was...merely taken by surprise earlier, and....I regret showing up unannounced as I did. Clearly not emailing beforehand was a mistake on my part.”

He sighs again, eyes casting downwards before coming back to meet Newt’s directly. “If you are still willing,” he says slowly, “I would like very much to. Erhm. Pick your brain, as it it were. I’m working on a new proposal, and I should...I should very much like to hear your thoughts on it, as it precedes off foundation you set down in your most recent article.”

Despite the guy's shit first impression, Newt can’t help but be intrigued. Sure, he came off as a bit of a dick, but the man’s work in theoretical mathematics and quantum applications is- it’s hot shit. It’s more than hot shit; it’s downright dirty, sexy science, edgy as hell and completely unprecedented in its field, and Newt had been all over it last semester, tearing through the guy’s impressive resume of work as fast as he could lay eyes on it. Of all the active academics out there that Newt wanted to meet, Hermann Gottlieb had been high up on the list, if not near the top. And, well, if there’d been a picture attached to his Google Scholar profile, he might have been even more interested, to be honest.

And _he_ wants to talk with _Newt._ About _biochemistry_. One of his _favorite things._

“Okay, Hermann,” Newt says. “Tell you what-”

“Doctor Gottlieb, if you please-”

Newt lifts his eyebrows to a _really?_ sort of height, and Gottlieb’s nostrils flare. He purses his lips, looking sour, and Newt picks up again, barely fighting off a grin.

“Tell you what, dude. I’d be cool sitting down and talking shop with you, but with two conditions, alright?”

Hermann breathes audibly out through his nose and, after a beat, nods his head once.

“Condition number one,” Newt says, holding up a finger, “Don’t talk shit about my monster class. I’ve heard your thoughts on it, I’m pretty solid on _exactly_ what your opinion is about it, and I honestly don’t give a shit. It’s my baby. Alright?”

“...Agreed,” Hermann says, somewhat reluctantly. “And the second?”

He lifts a second finger, and his smile cracks wide. “The second condition is we meet up over coffee.”

Hermann freezes, spine going ramrod straight, and out of his mouth comes a hilarious, indignant noise. “I- Our offices should be perfectly sufficient for-”

“No coffee, no Geiszler wisdom,” Newt says, tapping his temple. “I need my fuel, so I’m going anyway. Take it or leave it, dude. Your choice.”

“Dr. Geiszler-”

“Newt,” he reminds him. “Everybody calls me Newt.”

Hermann scoffs, but before he can say anything, Newt cuts in again. “Look, dude. I don’t have a lot of free time in my schedule. I’ve got two courses a day, Mondays through Thursdays, I’ve got my office hours, and I also oversee a lab full of panicky undergrads. But I’m always down for coffee or a bite at my favorite place-- Indigo Cafe, have you heard of it, on Mass Ave? Anyway, it’s halfway between my campus and yours, I’m in there almost every day right after my 11 A.M. classes end. So what do you say? Deal?”

Hermann visibly deliberates for a moment, squinting at him, before resolves squares the shoulders beneath his jacket.

“Fine,” he says, nodding once. “I’m available this Wednesday. 12:30.”

Newt beams. “Works for me. See you there, dude.”

“Yes. Alright.” Hermann waffles where he stands briefly, as though held in suspense, before nodding once more, a sharp dismissal. “I shall see you there,” he says, and the edge of his lip curls up in the first hint Newt’s seen of a smile. “Do not be late.”

Without so much as a goodbye, Hermann turns on a heel and strides off down the hallway. He doesn’t bother to spare a glance back, and so Newt is free to shake his head watching him go. And, covertly, ogle the man’s ass as he stalks away.

Woof. He really needs to stop finding complete assholes attractive, he thinks, woefully. And then, _Mako is going to flip when she hears I have a date._

After watching Hermann disappear from sight, he turns and sets off towards the lab. Mako’s never going to believe he got a real date out of his freshman monster class-- and she definitely won’t believe him when he tells her who it is.

 _Hermann freaking Gottlieb,_ he thinks.

His cheeks ache the rest of the day from smiling.

* * * ****


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermann prepares for his date-- _meeting_ \-- with Newton. ("Newt." Dr. Geizsler. _Bugger.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asldkjfalsdkfj long time no see, sorry for the slow updates but finals, winter break, and family vacations have knocked us loose and we haven't had much time to work on our projects. nevertheless, this story is still active, and thank you so much for all your lovely comments and patience ;)

**chapter two**

Hermann grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, hands dropping from his collar in his disgust. He’s leaving it buttoned, there’s no point fussing over it. No matter what sort of glint had flickered in Dr. Geiszler’s eyes earlier, this is a professional meeting: casual setting regardless.

Sound _idea,_ regardless. He cannot believe he agreed on meeting for coffee. He blames his lapse of judgement on Dr. Geiszler entirely. ( _Newt,_ the man’s scratchy voice corrects in his ear, so quick to drop all notion of professionalism, as if every one of his prestigious doctorates were mere window dressing. And calling _Hermann_ by his Christian name without a hint of courtesy, the gall of him.)

If the man hadn’t jumped him leaving that bloody lecture, demanding his _feedback,_ Hermann could have come and gone without a word. It would have been simple, the easiest assignment he’d ever completed. But of course, he’d been noticed. Naturally Dr. Geiszler, so _affronted_ at the possibility of someone disapproving of his ludicrous freshman course, had confronted him without warning, all but chasing him down MIT’s winding hallways. He’d been forced to come up with some explanation to explain his presence there, and while he’d did an adequate job of it on the spot-- knowing of Geiszler’s work beforehand, in admitted detail, had certainly helped-- he ended up cornering himself into a- into a _coffee date,_ of all things.

A coffee date, with Dr. Newton Geiszler.

Hermann’s hands lift unconsciously to the pressed line of his collar again, fingers tugging anxiously at the top button. Perhaps leaving it open _would_ be better, he thinks, doubtfully, and then exhales loudly through his nose, glowering at his mirror image. This is ridiculous. It’s _one meeting_ with a _colleague._  And even if it _isn't,_ he can manage a bloody coffee date, it’s not been as long as all that-- besides, they’ll just be talking about the work. His work, Geiszler’s work. Quantum physics. Mathematics. Even biochemistry, to a degree. Topics of conversation he could navigate in his sleep.

One meeting, and once over, he’ll never have to see Dr. Geiszler again. He’ll pass from the man’s life, deliver his report, and move on to his _actual_ work.

Hermann absently combs his fingers through his hair, tidying the fringe above his brow. There’s no true harm in it anyway, he reasons with himself. Geiszler’s lecture had gone exactly has he’d expected it too: childish imaginings, disorganized strings of fact and lurid fantasy all tied together in one preposterous curriculum. Nothing to be concerned about. A waste of time. In fact, he allows, this meeting might be the only positive to have come out of this entire assignment. He had been truthful, earlier, in his expressed appreciation for Geiszler’s more classical academic research. The man’s most recent journal article _was_ remarkable, and if honest with himself, Hermann can concede how discussing its findings with its author-- however _colorful_ the man’s personality was in reality-- could be... Well. In the very least, interesting, and not a completely unpleasant way to spend an afternoon.

The sound of familiar footsteps thumping in the hallway outside his door pries him summarily from his thoughts. Snagging his cane from where its propped against the mirror frame, he wanders from his closet through his bedroom, moving into the main room of his apartment just in time to see the front door swing open and Dietrich ducking his towering height through the doorframe.

Closing the door with his mouth already open to say hello, Dietrich catches sight of Hermann and stops short. With a keen sweep up and down Hermann’s frame, a certain light flickers in his ochre eyes, and Hermann withholds a groan at the sight of it. This is exactly what he’d been attempting to avoid.

“ _T_ _his_ is why we can’t have lunch?” Dietrich demands, the edges of his mouth curling up. “You have a _date?”_

“It's not a date,” he says automatically, and Dietrich’s grin turns devilish. “I told you last night, it’s an--”

“‘An academic meeting between peers’, _ja, ja,_ you said that in your texts, but look at you! You’re all pretty!”

“Oh, be quiet,” Hermann says, as his brother shrugs off his coat. He turns away, moving towards his bedroom again to escape the irritating glee on Dietrich’s face, but, obtuse as always, Dietrich lopes after him like an oblivious puppy.

“Don’t be annoyed I found out! I’m thrilled for you, _bruder!_ It’s been ages! Don’t worry about your collar, you look good. Well, I’m not sure about that shirt, actually, red is fine but maybe something a little less...starchy, eh?”

“It is _not_ a date. And for the last time, keep your _comments_ on my wardrobe to yourself. There is nothing wrong with the way I dress.”

“Not a date,” Dietrich mimics, his accent contorting into a rude, posh imitation of Hermann’s own English one. He circles around Hermann and heads directly into his closet, no doubt to find more articles of clothing to ridicule. “You're forgetting that I _know_ you, Hermann. ‘Peer’, mein arsch. You wouldn't be flashing a bit of skin if this was a _peer_. Your collar is unbuttoned! You might as well be flashing your ankles.”

Hermann opens his mouth to retort, but the words evaporate on his tongue at the sudden memory of Dr. Geiszler’s eyes crawling up his collarbone.

 _That’s quite enough,_ he thinks prohibitively. _Nothing in it._ In a fit of pique, he reaches up to button his collar again, glaring at the closet as he does so.

“No, leave it!” Dietrich cries, from somewhere amongst his winter wear. He pokes his head out, voice vibrating with mirth. “Show it off!”

“ _Why_ are you here?” he snaps, crossing his arms. “I told you earlier I can’t make lunch. Aren’t you still meeting Vanessa?”

“Vanessa and I thought you were trying to weasel out of lunch to work,” Dietrich says breezily. He parses through Hermann’s rack of shirts, face cycling between expressions of distaste and amusement, and Hermann rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time you skipped out on the market with us. You’re still such a prude. But you _are_ keeping fed, yeah?”

Hermann huffs. “I _can_ take care of myself, Dietrich. I have plenty stored here from when we last went.”

“I’m only checking, sheesh. Looking out for your health isn’t a _crime,_ Hermann, it’s my job-- and not just as your brother! Anyways, Ness is coming by soon and we’re leaving from here. And I’m glad we are, because we get to see you in your best! I can’t believe you have a date. Does Vanessa know already? She’s going to be over the moon. Who is it? Someone from Harvard, _ja?_ Is he good looking? I bet he’s good looking.”

“He is a _colleague,_ ” Hermann says, at the tipping point of exasperation. “And we’re going to be discussing our research. That is all, Dietrich. Why you and Karla are so fixated on my love life, I’ll never understand.”

“We just want you to be happy, _bruder._ It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Oof, I bet they’re handsome. And smart, too, you’re so picky, Hermann.”

“Enough,” Hermann moans, and the sound of the living room door opening once again makes them both start. They trail back into the living room to see Vanessa standing at the door, resplendent as usual in fashionable green trench. Her dark eyes find Hermann and immediately, the generous curve of her mouth lifts into a grin.

“Oh, _Hermann_ ,” she says, thrilled. “You have a _date,_ don’t you? That’s why you cancelled on lunch!”

Hermann closes his eyes and lifts his head skywards for patience.

“It’s the blazer, you only wear it on special occasions. You're a creature of habit,” Dietrich says from behind him, with an obnoxious note of amusement in his voice, and Hermann curses under his breath, filing the information away as his brother turns to greet Vanessa, who swiftly clicks towards them on her heels.

“Vanessa. I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs. How you’re so quiet in those heels, I’ll never know.”

“Stealth is a skill, sweetheart. It takes practice. And patience, a trait we both know you sorely lack. Look, I know we have lunch reservations, but Hermann, love, I have to know. Who is he?”

“Someone from _work,_ ” Dietrich says happily, waggling his thick eyebrows, and Hermann shakes his head tiredly. Both of them are so terribly _nosy_.

“It’s not a date,” he says, as turns to flee, but the effort is futile now. Once Vanessa sinks her teeth into something, there’s no shaking her grip, and she is a viper when it comes to Hermann’s personal life.

“Oh, Hermann,” Vanessa says again, now with a gentleness that tugs at his heels. He slows as she comes up sauntering up behind him, arms catching round his middle to tug him in for a hug. She props her chin on his shoulder, carefully holding his weight, and he’s bathed in the familiar scent of her, lavender and orange blossoms. The smell of home. Comfort. It soothes the restless anxiety that has seeped into his bones better than any other remedy.

“You’ve broken out the one with elbow patches. You must really like him.”

He tilts his chin to look at her, watching her mauve lips stretch into a smile of a genuine delight, and he can hardly gripe at her when she’s looking at him like that. He sighs, drooping in her arms, and she leans her head against his.

“I don’t...believe it’s a date,” he mutters.

“Ah! The truth comes out!”

“Shut up, Dietrich,” Vanessa hisses, turning briefly away from Hermann’s ear, and he lifts a hand to squeeze hers. This is why she’s his favorite.

“You don’t believe it’s a date? Why not? Did you ask him or did he ask you?”

Hermann frowns, shifting with uncertainty. It is probably not the best idea to give them _all_ of the details. Dietrich, certainly not.

“He- well. He asked me,” he manages, and Vanessa lets out an excited squeal in his ear, making him wince.

“Oh, Hermann. You have a suitor!” she gasps, squeezing him tight. “I knew someone would make a move soon. Who wouldn’t want their own handsome, brilliant Harvard professor? It was a just a matter of time before someone wanted a piece of you.”

Hermann scoffs dismissively, his mouth twitching upwards despite himself as he twists in her enthusiastic grip. She laughs and lets him go, only after brushing her lips once against his temple. He rubs at the mark her lipstick leaves half-heartedly, shaking his head and leaning on his cane.

“Details,” she prompts, and he sighs.

“He...is a biology professor. We’ve corresponded before, some time ago, but I met him formally today. At...work. It began, well. As an argument, actually.”

“Good, so he knows what you’re really like,” Dietrich deadpans, and in a flash Vanessa is at his side, slapping him upside the chestnut crown of his head. “Ow _, Scheiße!”_

“Don’t be rude!”

Hermann rolls his eyes as she dodges Dietrich’s attempt to return the blow, dancing towards his couches. They begin to trade light-hearted blows, striking at each other’s arms and sides and darting around the interior of Hermann’s living room, and Hermann winces as Dietrich stumbles against a side table while lunging for Vanessa’s curly hair.

“ _Watch_ my furniture!” he snaps, as the table’s lamp wobbles on its perch, and sighs when they ignore him. He’s already had to replace the dining room table _twice_ because of their antics, and he isn’t going back to IKEA any time soon-- so help him if they break another thing, he’s sending them out shopping.

Turning away as their tussle spills towards the dining room, Hermann sighs again, wandering to his loveseat and sitting down. He’s putting far too much thought into this, he’s well aware, but there’s no helping it now. He fastens and unfastens his top button once more, muttering under his breath. Out of sight, there's the sound of a heavy thump and Dietrich calling out an apology, and in defeat, he slumps back into the couch cushion, pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t pretend to understand why they insist on behaving this way. Even though he knows Dietrich and Vanessa bear each other no ill-will, he still finds it somewhat uncomfortable being caught up amongst their merciless play-fighting. Hermann _detests_ violence. He cannot possibly fathom why two people who care for each other would engage in it _for fun_.

The ruckus dies down, and after some pointed exchange of whispers, both Vanessa and Dietrich make their way back into the main room.

“Aww,” Dietrich says at the sight of him, and Hermann merely opens his eyes to look at him, daring him to say another word. Dietrich lifts his hands in surrender, and Vanessa makes a low noise of sympathy.

“Hermann,” she says, knowingly. And she does know, knows him so well. Better than anyone. When she glides forward to sit beside him, her presence is a warmth that rolls over him, and the tightness between his shoulder blades relaxes instinctually.

“Don't be nervous. You look lovely. You always do.”

Hermann sighs, avoiding her eyes. “It's not that.”

“He asked you, right?” Vanessa reminds him. “And you said _yes._ What else is there?”

Hermann pauses. The details, and the heart of his anxieties, can be left for later, outside of Dietrich’s range of hearing. But there is something else bothering him, something he himself cannot work out for the life of him.

“He's...” Hermann trails off, mind casting about for the proper words, before surrendering to the first to stick. " _Annoying."_

Dietrich bursts out laughing, swaying backwards with it, and even Vanessa can't contain a giggle at his expense.

“Annoying?”

“I don't understand it,” Hermann says, with genuine frustration. “He's _loud._  He's arrogant and he’s rude and he’s unprofessional, and doesn't possess an _ounce_ of decorum-”

“So he's not your usual type,” Vanessa observes, as Dietrich continues to cackle like a mad man behind her. “Maybe that's a good thing.”

Hermann blinks. Is it? Unlikely. “I don't know.”

“Give him a proper chance. You must see _something_ in him, or you'd never had said yes. Or argued with him in the first place. You rarely debate with people you consider a waste of time, darling.”

 _She's not wrong_ , a voice in Hermann's head agrees, and the stretch of Geiszler's smirk plays out across his mind. Annoying, yes. But a waste of time? ...Perhaps not.

“...Alright,” he says, dipping his chin. “I will...see how it goes.”

To his own quiet surprise, Hermann finds that he means it. Misgivings aside, a part of him is looking forward to this meeting. Eager, even, to discuss the work with someone of Geiszler’s acumen. And in the event circumstances develop against expectations and his better sense, and getting coffee leads to something...else, well. Hermann can evaluate things from there.

“Good,” Vanessa says, squeezing him on the shoulder. “Then my work here is done, and we're off. Have fun, love.”

“Go get him, tiger,” Dietrich says, as Vanessa rises from Hermann’s side. Hermann scowls at him, making him laugh, and they head towards the door. Dietrich opens it and stands aside to let Vanessa walk through, but as he turns to grab his coat, he pauses in the doorway.

“Hermann,” he says. Hermann frowns at the sober sound of Dietrich’s voice, and sees that the levity on his brother’s face has faded, replaced with a far more sober expression.

“How did things go yesterday?” Dietrich asks.

 _Ah._ Hermann resists the urge to stiffen, wills his limbs to relax under Dietrich’s watchful gaze. Though he might not have been completely honest about Geiszler, there’s no cause to worry him.

“It was nothing, Dietrich,” Hermann says, waving a hand. That it’s true, for the most part, helps steady his voice. “Hardly worth investigating. Just another creature fanatic with half-baked theories and a blog.”

Dietrich’s stare didn't waver. “And Father?”

His voice takes a colder note, despite himself, and he briefly presses his lips together. “...I delivered my report yesterday. Father declared the intelligence I gathered adequate and dismissed me.”

“I don’t like that you were sent alone,” Dietrich says. His deep voice is stony, disapproving. Hermann understands better than anyone that it isn’t himself that Dietrich disagrees with, but nevertheless, the sentiment _“I don’t like that you were sent at all”_ does not go unheard. “No matter who it is or how weak the lead, no one should be looking into the list alone. He should’ve sent a team. Someone else. Hell, if Father had told me, I would have-”

“But Father didn’t tell you.” Hermann’s voice, though not unkind, is firm. “He asked me. And it was something I was willing to do. Something I needed to do.”

Dietrich’s eyes are grave. “You don’t have to prove yourself to this family,” he says, insistence rolling tempestuously within the low timbre of his voice. “He knows that. We all know that.”

“I know,” Hermann says simply. He knows, in the least, that Dietrich believes it. And for now, that is enough. “It’s done. There was no danger, the name will be taken off the list. Father did not assign me another.” _Do not worry._

Dietrich nods, eyes falling to the floor. “Good,” he says, half to himself, and Hermann says nothing, grip tightening on the handle of his cane. Dietrich’s grasp on the doorknob loosens, and the metal of it creaks audibly with relief as he drops his hand.

“Just another monster geek with a blog, eh?” Dietrich looks up as he puts on his coat, his good humor seeping back into his expression as if it had never departed. “It’s getting harder to tell. The Internet makes everyone seem like an expert these days.”

“Indeed.”

Dietrich nods, eyes still caught on Hermann’s face, one foot out the door. “Nothing to it?”

“Nothing at all,” Hermann repeats.

Dietrich nods once more, and finally moves to close the door, leaving the apartment and Hermann behind.

* * *

Geiszler is late.

The cafe itself had not been difficult to find. Hermann is more than familiar with Massachusetts Avenue, after years at Harvard and longer living in Boston proper, and he had left his apartment fifteen minutes early just in case. Indigo Cafe, on its surface, doesn’t seem particularly different from any other coffee shop in the city; aside from the aforementioned color of its walls and the Brit-punk posters printed beneath the glass tables that fill the place, it’s standard fare. It’s also, unfortunately, bustling by the time Hermann arrives, swamped with clamoring college students and commuters in the area floating through to get coffee or bagels for lunch. Unwilling to wait in line, Hermann had dodged it entirely and seized the last empty table, a somewhat quieter corner booth away from the crowded stream of customers, and it’s here that he’s sat for near thirty minutes now. His patience, suffice to say, is dwindling.

It is true that this meeting had been a casual, spur-of-the-moment suggestion to meet in the first place, and that _perhaps_ the man is merely running late, but the probability that Geiszler isn’t coming at all is becoming more and more certain. The longer he sits-- body turned towards the door, thumb stroking the metal grip of his cane-- the more clearly he can imagine it: Geiszler purposefully missing the appointment with him, just to get back at Hermann for slighting his freshman lecture in some petty, childish form of revenge. All that flirtation earlier just a spiteful pretence to fluster him, to ensure that Hermann would show. The idea sits in him and simmers, working to a boil.

Checking his mobile’s clock one last time, Hermann curses under his breath. 12:53pm. Over twenty minutes late. The quiet outrage stirring in Hermann’s stomach flares red hot, and he pockets the phone forcefully. Enough of this. He will not wait and be humiliated for a moment longer. He’d been foolish not to recognize the invitation earlier as anything other than a lark. As Hermann makes to stand, leave, and never look back-- warring over whether radio silence or a strongly-worded email would assuage his injured pride better-- the cafe doorbell chimes.

Cheeks ruddy with exertion, green eyes wide behind his thick-rimmed glasses, Dr. Geiszler rapidly scans the shop until he spots Hermann at the back of the cafe.

“Hermann!” he cries, voice throwing across the din. He lifts up a hand, squeezing through the line, and Hermann stares, frozen, as the man hurries up to his table. Geiszler’s shoulders visibly rise and fall with duress, and Hermann can hear a quiet rasp in the man’s throat as he attempts to catch his breath.

“Dude, I’m so sorry I’m late!” Geiszler tugs an emerald knit scarf loose from around his neck, tossing it and a leather messenger bag from beneath his arm both into the booth. “One of my students held me after lecture for, like, way too long and I tried to get out of it but the kid basically wanted to be walked through like, _half_ of the whole lecture again and I couldn’t weasel out of it fast enough.” He collapses unceremoniously into the seat across from Hermann, leaning back onto the cushioned booth seat with a breath of relief gusting from his lips. “Have you been here long? I busted ass running here but it’s cold as hell out, man, and I’m not exactly running fit, you know?”

Hermann continues to stare as the man rambles, still somewhat stunned by his arrival. Dr. Geiszler is dressed, if possible, even more casually than when Hermann first saw him: a sleek leather jacket stretches tight across his shoulders on top of a thin, v-neck jumper, exposing a slip of pale skin made paler by the white of the jumper cotton. His short ears and nose are chilled pink, and his dark hair is ruffled from the icy bay wind blowing down the streets, and he looks- well. He looks-

“Hermann? Have you been waiting long, dude?”

Hermann blinks, and meets Geiszler’s eyes.

 _Yes,_ he thinks, _you are incredibly late. I almost left entirely._

“No, not very long,” he says instead.

“Still, sorry for being late. And after you told me to come on time and everything,” Geiszler says, and his lips tug up into a grin. “Buy you a coffee for waiting?”

“That’s not necessary-”

“C’mon, my treat,” Geiszler insists. The edges of his eyes crinkle, Hermann notices. The faintest beginnings of aging, ghosting the corners of his eyes and the meeting of his eyebrows. He bites in the inside of his cheek, hesitant, before sighing.

“I- very well. Thank you. Just a cup of earl grey, if they have it.”

“Tea guy, huh? Guess I’m not surprised. Sugar?” he asks, clambering out of the booth to stand. Hermann shakes his head. “Milk?”

“Just a splash. Thank you.”

“Alright, sweet,” Geiszler says, and skips off towards the line. Hermann watches him go. To think he’d been moments from storming out like an angry child. He’d been so quick to assume the worst of the man, and now Geiszler was buying him tea as an apology. Damn it all. It’s enough to fill Hermann with embarrassment at his internal dramatics, and worse still, shame that he’d been so hasty to plot his own form of revenge, just on the _possibility_ that the man had missed the meeting on purpose.

Ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. He almost bungled the entire date from nerves alone, and before the actual date had even shown up, no less.

He can _never_ tell Dietrich about this.

Taking the moment to gather his thoughts and confidence, Hermann finds himself zoning in on Geiszler as he waits in line. The man is overflowing with energy, it seems, even standing still; he bounces on the soles of his shiny low-heeled boots, overt but not rude in his impatience, head bobbing to the low-volume rock music pumping out over the cafe’s speakers. Normally, Hermann would find immaturity in the way the man vibrated, unable to remain still, or fault at least in the man’s poor taste in seventies alternative rock music, but watching him now Hermann can’t help but feel somewhat charmed. Likely because the man’s buying him tea, he concedes, but there’s something within the guileless, unfiltered way the man moves and speaks. Unrestrained, without self-consciousness. Confident in himself. Hermann can admit that it’s not an unattractive trait.

Soon, Geiszler returns to their table, two mugs in hand.

“I ordered them in mugs for here, because I figured we’d be staying a while-- hope that’s okay,” he says, setting them down carefully and sliding back into the booth. Hermann nods his head, inhaling the pleasant aroma of black, loose leaf tea and catching of whiff of fresh, sweetened coffee from Geiszler’s own mug.

“Mmm. Thank you.” Hermann wraps his fingers around the warm ceramic of his mug. It’s a more pleasant experience, at any rate, than sipping from a paper cup. “I do not mind to linger. I don’t have class on Wednesdays, so I have ample time.”

“Yeah? Lucky, dude. I’ve got another class at four. But I’ve got time to kill, and I really don’t want to go back outside anytime soon. It’s cold as shit out.”

Geiszler rucks up the leather of his sleeves a bit, bare wrists revealing tendrils of colorful ink bleeding from his covered forearms, curling his fingers around the handle of his steaming mug. His fingernails are chipped and painted black, and Hermann watches him draw the mug close, blowing gustily at the rim as his glasses fill up with fog. Geiszler hums with contentment, leaning back, and looks up to meet Hermann in the eye.

“So. Science,” he says, and when Hermann blinks at him, awkwardly clears his throat. “D’you just wanna jump right into it, or...”

Hermann hides his deliberation in a careful sip of his tea-- which is actually quite good-- and attempts to remember exactly what lie he had fed Geiszler earlier to set up this meeting in the first place. Ah. The recent _Quantum_ article. Right.

“Let’s start with your second hypothesis,” Hermann says firmly. The key to conquering his nerves, he’s learned, is always bluster. “I have some...questions about how you came about conceptualizing it.”

“Questions, or like, _issues?_ ” Geiszler says, leaning forward across the table on an elbow, and immediately, they’re off. They fall into a somewhat heated debate all too easily, with Geiszler-- _Newt,_ he keeps insisting, _it’s Newt, dude, saying my first name isn’t going to kill you--_ going toe-to-toe against him on everything from the scientific impetus behind his most recent paper to Hermann’s current work and back into their earlier, competing forays into quantum mechanics.

To Hermann’s pleased surprise, Newton-- he will _not_ stoop to nicknames-- is deeply informed on Hermann’s personal body of work, firing off questions and demanding explanations for even the most obscure elements of his research. Even though he raises his voice several times and Newton nearly spills his coffee with every emphatic point, Hermann is utterly engrossed. Newton is- he’s brilliant, disconcertingly so. More insightful than Hermann had estimated even in his more appreciative moments reading the man’s work some years before. He’s also _cheeky,_ wielding aspects of scientific data like weaponry in an arsenal rather than as practical foundation, doling out teasing digs like it’s an organized sport. They clash with irresistible magnetism, at easy, resounding, complimentary odds.

Before Hermann realizes it, time has slipped away from them, and the cafe has emptied in an afternoon lull. The two of them are practically the only ones left within, going back and forth at each other without any sign of stopping like they’ve known each other for years. When Hermann actually takes notice, looking around and sitting back into his seat as Newton dissolves into a tangent about bosons, he finds his mouth twisting up into a smile. The anxiety he had felt earlier has all but faded, replaced with unexpected feelings of warmth.

“And I’m not even going to _touch_ mirror symmetry, but-” Newton is saying, but eyes flicking up to Hermann he stops himself, eyebrows lifting up. “What? Did I say something funny?”

“No.” He taps the edge of his mug with a finger, which has by now gone cold. “Merely realizing the time. We’ve been sitting here quite a while.”

“Yeah?” Newton leans up to tug his phone from the back of his preposterously tight jeans, before gawking at the display. “Holy shit. We really went off, didn’t we?”

“Yes, I suppose we did. I apologize; I know you have other commitments today.”

“No, no, dude, we were both pretty intense there for a minute.” Newton rubs a hand on the back of his neck, the edge of his mouth quirked up. “Besides it was. Uh. Pretty good conversation. I haven’t gotten into a debate like that in like, forever. It was...nice.”

“Yes,” Hermann says honestly, and smiles. “It was.”

Newton blinks at him, and Hermann watches as blood blooms from beneath the man’s cheeks, rosy pink dusting across his freckles. Meeting the man’s eyes, he sees the green of Newton’s irises narrow around dilated black pupils. It’s immediately gratifying, and something heated stirs in Hermann’s gut for the first time in years.

“So,” Newton says. For the first time, something like nerves enters his unique voice, and he worries his bottom lip. “Uh. I do have to go, but um. Do you still want to meet up again and talk about your research later? I know we got a little off track there, at the end.”

Hermann makes a considering noise in his throat, and watches discreetly as Newton’s gaze flickers to his collarbone like before. Ah. Perhaps Dietrich was right about that after all. “I appreciate your input, Dr. Geiszler--”

 _"Newt,_ dude _._ "

“Newton,” he compromises, smirking. Newton returns the grin, making something curl around Hermann’s spine, and a spot of mischief takes hold of him. “This was a highly productive conversation. Unfortunately, I have a feeling most of our...discussions are likely to dissolve in this way, so perhaps it is best we leave things here.”

The smile drops from Newton’s face immediately. “Oh,” he says, surprised, and his face twists visibly in an attempt to conceal his disappointment. Hermann fights to control his smile and the mirth that wells up in him at the sight. “I- I mean, sure. That’s fine, I get it. You can, uh. You can always email me, if you want to meet up again later-”

“However,” Hermann says, grateful it is not within him to blush, “if you would be willing...I would be happy to meet up with you again soon, to speak under less formal circumstances.”

There’s a beat where Newton stares at him, eyes round, and beneath the distant music and ruckus of the cafe, Hermann can hear the man’s heartbeat pick up like drum beats.

 _"Oh,”_ Newton says. He swallows quickly, the edge of his mouth twitching.  “I. Uh. Just- just to be clear, uh- you’re talking about a date, right? You’re asking me out on a date.”

Hermann lifts his eyebrows in amusement. “Yes. I am.”

A shaky laugh falls out of Newton’s mouth. “I- cool. Awesome, uh- you’re sure? You- Hermann- are asking me out. On a date. Like. Soon.”

Hermann can’t help a low chuckle, and nods his head. “Yes.”

“This week?” Newt presses, leaning forward. “Friday night?”

Hermann’s heart feels light. “Seven o’clock?” he offers, tilting his head.

“Italian okay? Giorgio’s, on Saint Street?” Newton asks, leaning closer, almost out of his seat. Hermann nods in agreement.

“Italian is fine.”

Newton licks his lips. “I get your number?”

Hermann slides his mobile across the table. Newt blinks at it, grinning openly now. He scoops it up and quickly stabs in his information.

“Okay,” he says, sliding it back. “Awesome. Uh.” He shifts in his seat, gathering his scarf and his bag but lingering to beam at him. “I- I have to go, but. See you then?”

“See you then,” Hermann confirms.

He watches Newton stand, quickly wrapping his scarf around his neck and taking his leave, before the man comes to a sudden halt and pivots back around. He steps up to Hermann’s side of the booth, putting a hand on the table, leaning close enough that Hermann can feel the heat of him emanating across his skin.

“By the way, Hermann,” Newton says, his hoarse voice low. He smells like chalk and vanilla-hinted coffee, and Hermann can hear the man’s heart dancing almost as if to a beat. “You look good too. The elbow patches are cute.”

Newton sweeps forward, torso sliding past Hermann as he reaches to snag Hermann’s mug, and quickly pulls away.

“See you later,” Newton says, winking, and spins on a heel. Hermann watches him as he drops their mugs on the counter, the space behind his ribcage warm with feeling, and smiles as Newt exits the door with a wave. Then he leans back in the booth, breath spiralling from his lungs, and lifts his mobile. Tapping to his contacts, he finds the most recent addition and shakes his head at the name listed: _The Smartest Guy You Know._

He has a date Friday. Another one. A real one.

With Newton.

Vanessa is going to beside herself, he thinks. And then, as though plunged in ice water, thinks, _gott im Himmel. I have a date with Newton Geiszler._

He cannot tell Dietrich the truth. He cannot tell anyone. If someone were to find out that he was dating someone whose name had been on the list, even _briefly,_ they’d-

No. No one is going to find out, he decides, because he’s not going to tell a soul. As far as anyone’s concerned, he’s dating a colleague from Harvard, and that will be it. At least, for a few weeks. At least until Newton’s name passes from the community memory. Until then, he’ll just have to change some details with his family. Nothing complicated, just minor things. Like the man’s...name. _Verdammt._

Hermann groans under his breath, hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. This is infinitely more complicated than it seemed five minutes ago, when he was asking Newton out on a date. He shouldn’t have- he can’t believe he-

He thinks of how Newton was just looming at him, grinning, eyes gleaming, close enough to touch. He remembers exactly how, and exactly why.

He needs merely to be careful, he reasons. If he can be careful, nothing will go wrong. Nothing _should_ go wrong in the first place; he cleared Newt himself. But just in case, well. There’s no harm in delaying the truth with the others, if only for a short while.

Until then, Hermann will just have to occupy himself with a date or two. With Newton.

Hermann looks at his phone one more time, mouth lifting again into a smile.

He can manage that.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. we love them so much. they're so stupid. we love them. tell us about how much you love them too in the comments or on our blogs ;)
> 
> also, apologies if we butchered any german or any science. we are humble american/english women. bless.

**Author's Note:**

> :)))) thanks for reading!
> 
> like it? wanna scream with us??? hit us up @apprenticeofdoyle and @dacergirl369 on tumblr, we're always down to talk newmann, babes
> 
> (title is from the song "Vampire Again" by Marlon Williams)


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